Intercession
by Sweet Valentine
Summary: [companion to Little Finger] “I found your gun,” she is trying to distract him, he can tell.  Any other instance he would have made some sullied quip, vintage leading man.  But now isn’t the time.  And he hardly has the strength to voice anything.


**Companion piece to "Little Finger." Same disclaimer applies. Enjoy.**

_**Intercession**_

_Lead us not into temptation, _

_But deliver us from evil._

His eyes feel leaden and he squeezes them tightly shut in an effort to ease their weariness. There is a dull aching in his head. He should have gone to sleep hours ago, but he figured he'd pilot the party as far as he could before retiring for the night. Fran had warned him to sleep not to long back, and he was wishing now he had taken her up on her offer then. He rubs his eyes tiredly, before finally giving in to drowsiness, and he stalls the airship and is careful to ensure that all the necessary protective devices are in place.

And then he ups and offs to bed.

His unlit cabin could not be more welcoming to his exhausted state. He begins undressing, removing his vest and earrings, and then goes to remove his belt, careful to not spill any ammunition –

_Damn_.

His gun, Vega. He must have left the damned thing in the cockpit. He gives an irritated sigh. He'd better go and retrieve it – the last thing he needs is Vaan getting his grubby thief's hands on it, lest the boy steal it or blow his head off or some such thing.

Resigned, Balthier begins to go back to the cockpit, tiredly and quite displeased with his forgetfulness. He runs a hand through his russet hair, mussing it slightly. Not that he cares, right now now. Everyone, including all the very attractive female members of their little squad, had retired long ago. No need to keep up appearances.

He makes his way down the darkened corridors, eyes half closed (he knows his ship well, and foregoes the bother of actually needing to see where he's going). He arrives at his destination and starts to go in, but he's stilled by the fact that _someone_ is already there.

His eyes widen, delighted. He never passes up the chance to have alone time with the ever-so-endearing Princess Ashelia. Gods know she is always so damned pleased to see _him._ He smirks. He simply can't help himself when it comes to teasing the uptight Princess. He moves closer, as quietly as he can, and is even more charmed when he sees that it is _she_ who has happened upon his gun. He is never one to pass up a good "gun" euphemism. He smirks again.

The grin that has plastered itself onto his face vanishes at the sight of her pressing the gun's barrel to her wrist, with intent. It also doesn't escape his notice that her finger rests lightly coiled 'round the trigger.

He feels his heart plummet to his stomach, the jolt enough to knock the breath from his lungs. Not Ashe. Not his Ashe.

He watches her, captivated, as her fingers gently traced the outline of the gun. He… doesn't want to imagine her next move.

"Fancy meeting you here, Princess." He tries to maintain a neutral expression, keep a casual tone, but when she turns to meet his gaze, her guilty eyes confirm his darkest, most feared suspicions. She looks stunned, clearly not expected company, and she flounders for the briefest of moments before reverting to what she must have thought sounded like a typical Ashe-ism.

"I found your gun," she is trying to distract him, he can tell. Any other instance he would have made some sullied quip, vintage leading man. But now isn't the time. And he hardly has the strength to voice anything. But that doesn't stop him from trying.

"It's not loaded."

He is amazed at how composed he sounds, slight anger seeping into his words. He would have thought she, of all people, better than this. He notices the way she carefully avoids looking at him. He wants to seethe. She was supposed to be stronger than this! He has not come all this way for her to give up on him, become a coward.

Determinedly, he crosses to her. He is not about to let her call his bluff. Firmly he places his hands upon hers. They are, he notices, frigid. He pulls the gun from her grasp, not removing his eyes from her once. She doesn't look back, but she des pull away from his presence.

"I'm going to retire now," her voice is low. He swallows hard.

"I think that would be for the best."

He watches her as she jadedly draws away, begings making her way out the door of the cockpit. His own hands shake with adrenaline. Swiftly, he brings the gun nearer to his face, so he can make out its outline beneath the dim light emitting from various contraptions of the Strahl.

And for the first time in years, to the deafening clang of bullets spilling to the floor, Balthier says a prayer.

**AN: I hope this is okay. Short, yes, but it's all I got. **

**Enjoy.**


End file.
